


Riding the Rails

by Sholio



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Neal was FBI and Peter was the criminal? Snippets of an AU, now with a new chapter in which criminal!Peter is placed in Neal's custody on a tracking anklet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a [fandom-stocking fic from last year](http://fandom-stocking.dreamwidth.org/491565.html?thread=9471021#cmt9471021) (based on a conversation with veleda_k), which I didn't post here at the time because I realized after looking at pictures of the TGV (French bullet train) that my plot would not work because there is no separation between train cars, like there is on a normal train. And then eventually I decided I'm probably messing up a dozen other things I don't even know about, so ... handwave that part. XD

"Hey boss," Diana said, leaning into Peter's compartment of the train car. Peter looked up from where he was quickly running through some numbers on their take from the Monaco job. She'd changed from her casino-dealer's outfit -- a tuxedo and top hat -- to her more usual dark leather jacket. "You will never believe who's on this train with us."

"You're joking. Not Caffrey?" Diana shrugged. There was a slightly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Peter wished he could be more angry than impressed. That damned kid was like the proverbial bad penny: he just kept turning up. "We locked him into the casino vault! How the hell did he get out? For that matter, how did he get _here?_ What did he do, rent a helicopter?"

"I think he commandeered a car of some kind and jumped off an overpass onto the train," Diana said. "He's on the roof."

Peter stared at her. She couldn't be joking; Diana wasn't the kind to joke about something like that. "The _roof?"_ This wasn't a slow train; it was the TGV, the French high-speed rail. He couldn't even imagine how Neal had gotten up there in the first place, let alone how he'd managed to stay on.

"Come and see," she said, beckoning him. 

When he'd first learned that Interpol's rising star was on his tail, Peter had merely been amused. Caffrey was just a kid, and Peter had over twenty years' experience under his belt. It would be fun running rings around the kid and sending him home with his tail between his legs.

Six months later, Peter wasn't laughing anymore. He was alternately annoyed and intrigued. He'd had agents on his tail before who were tenacious, smart, and determined. Caffrey was all of those things, but he also had something else, something Peter couldn't quite put his finger on -- it was a certain flair, a talent for improvisation and offbeat ideas that somehow worked. (Or _almost_ worked; Neal hadn't caught him yet. But he'd certainly come closer than anyone else ever had.) It was a shame he wasn't a thief, because he would have made an absolutely brilliant one. Peter could imagine taking Neal under his wing and training him. Pity Neal had such terrible taste in careers.

Diana took him to the end of their train car -- it was all private compartments, and they waited until there was no one in the corridor before she pointed out the window in the door. Yep, it was Caffrey all right, flattened on top of the next car. Peter could barely see him, but it looked like he was wearing some kind of climbing harness and goggles. He was tucked tightly behind a wind baffle that kept windshear from damaging the delicate components of the linkage that connected the train car to its guide cable.

"Why is he still up there?" Peter murmured.

"Maybe he's trying to figure out how to come down without alerting us. He couldn't possibly know which car we're in."

After studying the situation for another minute or two, Peter laughed softly. "No. I think he's stuck."

And he could see exactly how it must have happened: Caffrey jumping on when the train decelerated at the last station, then getting caught off guard by the speed of its acceleration. Now he couldn't get down without getting caught by the wind and torn off the train.

The speeding countryside was nothing but a blur. No one could possibly survive if they lost their grip. Even as Peter thought this, he saw Neal slip a little, then grimly scramble back into position.

"He's really in trouble," Peter murmured. "He can probably stay up there 'til the next station, but he must be getting badly chilled. If he gets hypothermic, it's all over."

"You do realize he's trying to arrest us, Boss."

"I know," Peter said. "How close is the next stop?"

Diana sighed, but she already had her phone out, checking route maps. "Not close. There are only a couple of stops between here and Paris." Which was one reason why they'd picked this method of escape -- fewer places for police to board. "Are you going to suggest what I think you're going to -- Oh, honestly." 

"Keep an eye on him and let me know if it looks like he's about to fall." Peter hurried back to his compartment, collected his briefcase and checked carefully for anything he might have left behind. Just to be on the safe side, he pulled on his gloves and drew an immaculately pressed handkerchief from his pocket -- Peter favored a slightly old-fashioned but understated dress style, tasteful but not flashy. He wiped down any surfaces he might have touched. 

His phone chimed with a text: "Think he's losing his grip. Now?"

Peter texted back: "Get to an exit & signal an emergency stop when you're in place."

This would be the most dangerous part for Caffrey, he supposed -- braced against the train's rocket speed, he might be flung off when it decelerated. Still, the kid was sharp and had the reflexes of a cat. Peter would have to trust he'd have the sense to recognize what was happening and adjust his grip.

The train's smooth swaying changed and became rougher. Peter gripped a support bar by the window. The green blur of the countryside began to resolve into trees, scattered farms, the roofs of a village nearby. He sighed. Middle of nowhere. Well, his French was fluent and Diana's was perfect. They'd make do.

He left his compartment and made his way rapidly along the corridor. A voice over the announcement system was telling the passengers to stay seated and not to panic, though the babble of voices through open compartment doors indicated to Peter that they might not be obeying the second part of the instructions.

He reached the Neal end of the car just as Neal lost his grip. They were still moving, but not fast. The door was supposed to be locked when the train was in motion, but Diana, Peter saw, had thoughtfully jammed the lock for him. He dropped the briefcase, opened the door, and stepped out onto the shifting linkage between cars as Neal slithered off the end of the leading car. Peter caught him by his climbing harness just as the train jolted to a complete stop.

"Burke," Neal gasped. His hair was a windblown mess and his face was chalk white, but he also looked -- _delighted,_ in some way, his eyes bright and excited like he'd just had the ride of his life. "Did you stop the train?"

"You have no common sense," Peter told him, giving him a little shake by the harness. Neal, despite his thrilled look, was limp enough that only Peter's grip was holding him up.

Peter's phone chimed again. He didn't have to look to know it was Diana letting him know she was off the train and away.

"Peter Burke," Neal said, rallying somewhat, "you're under arr --"

He didn't finish because Peter had twisted his harness around him, binding his arms and using his own superior strength to pin Neal against the train car as he struggled. Neal thoughtfully had a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt, so Peter cuffed him to the door handle of the forward train car. "Stay," Peter told him, then retrieved his briefcase and hopped down to the sun-warmed gravel.

There were a couple of conductors off the train and crouching down to peer at its undercarriage. One of them shouted at him that passengers needed to stay on the train. Peter broke into a jog.

"Thanks!" Neal shouted after him. Peter glanced back; he'd already gotten one hand free. "You're under arrest by the way! Conductor! _Contrôleur! Arrêter_ \-- uh, _arrêtez cet homme!_ Stop that man!"

Peter hurdled a fence into the edge of a field. Far ahead he glimpsed Diana disappearing into a stand of trees. Another day, another narrow escape, he thought, and dashed after her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AND NOW THERE'S MORE. Written for a prompt request on Tumblr, for criminal!Peter placed in Neal's custody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Also posted on Tumblr.](http://sholiofic.tumblr.com/post/151553968988/hello-sholio-excited-to-see-you-taking-wc)

It had been, as usual, pure impulse. Neal had always _wanted_ to catch Burke, he really had ... but the only thing he felt when he'd actually done it was a hollow, painful triumph. Burke would be going away to prison for years, and probably coming out a lot harder and more dangerous, his sharp intelligence honed to a razor point and no longer restrained by the sympathy and humor that made him so intriguing.

So Neal came up with the tracking anklet idea.

_This is a terrible plan,_ he thought as he leaned against his car and waited for Burke to show up outside the prison. _He's going to escape. I know he probably can do it, if he wants to._ The only thing that gave him any hope at all that Burke _wouldn't_ run was the man's patient, methodical nature. Neal knew from long and usually bitter experience that Burke was capable of spending _years_ waiting for a plan to come to fruition. But it also meant that he was patient enough, and long-sighted enough, to recognize the benefit of waiting six years to get the anklet off and walk away a free man.

If Neal could only get him to see it that way -- get him to recognize that giving up the better part of his forties working for the FBI was preferable to a life on the run.

The prison doors opened, and Burke sauntered out, hands shoved in the pockets of his long gray coat. He was calm and controlled, and Neal wondered how on earth the guy did it -- he'd been in prison for months, and yet he looked like he thought _he_ was in charge.

"Show it to me," Neal said, because he wouldn't put it past Burke to have already figured out a way of taking off or disabling the tracker.

Burke quirked a sideways smile, and tugged up his pants leg, revealing the band around his ankle with its light glowing a reassuring green. "Happy?"

"I guess so." He got into his car, because the November wind was freezing and there was no point in standing around out here any longer, and waited for Burke to take the passenger seat.

"Off to the FBI?" Burke asked. His voice gave absolutely nothing away.

"Not today. First I'll drop you off at the place the Bureau's arranged for you to stay. You're not gonna like it, but they wouldn't spring for more than it costs to house you in prison, and seven hundred bucks a month doesn't go far in Manhattan."

Burke shrugged. "I've slept in worse places, I'm sure."

Neal tried to invite further elaboration with an inquisitive stare, but Burke merely gazed back at him with that slight, "I know more than you do" smile.

This was going to be a long six years.

As Neal pulled through the prison's gate, he started to turn left, then slapped his palm on the steering wheel and turned right.

"Problem?" Burke asked mildly.

"No ... just forgot I need to run an errand first."

"Errand?"

"Yep," Neal said, and didn't elaborate, because _no way_ was he discussing his girlfriend with the felon in the passenger seat, especially when he'd come very close to forgetting that Kate had asked him to swing by the DeArmitt Gallery and pick up a painting for her boss's office redecorating. She was thriving as the executive assistant to businessman Vincent Adler; it was nice to see her career starting to take off, after years of hard work.

He parked on the street as close to the gallery as he could get, and then realized he had to figure out what to do with Burke. Leaving him in the car seemed like a bad idea. Taking him into a gallery full of valuable items was even worse. Neal decided, reluctantly, that it was probably best to keep him in sight. 

"I'm just going to walk in and pick up a package," he told Burke. "And you're going to keep your hands in sight at all times."

Burke shrugged and smiled blandly. "I just got out of prison. I'm not eager to get sent back."

Neal made a noncommittal noise and an "after you" gesture. Burke's smile kicked up a notch, and he strolled ahead of Neal to the gallery doors. Neal followed, wondering why it felt like he was out of control of this situation _already,_ somehow.

Inside the gallery, he tried to keep half his attention on Burke and the other half scanning for the gallery manager, who was nowhere in sight. "Could you tell Elizabeth Mitchell that Neal Caffrey is here to see her?" he asked the receptionist, whose name tag read YVONNE. She nodded and hurried off.

Burke was bending close to peer at a display of elaborate jeweled sculptures in a glass case. "Nope," Neal said, intercepting him and steering him away.

"It's just professional interest."

"Yes, but I know what your profession is --"

"Neal!"

He turned to greet Mitchell, who was bearing down on him. He'd met her a couple of times before, since she and Kate knew each other casually and moved in some of the same circles. She was a vivacious brunette with a dazzling smile, currently aimed full-wattage at the two of them. 

"You're here for Kate's painting, correct? It's all wrapped up. I've sent Larry to bring it out." Mitchell's attention turned to Burke. "And who's your handsome friend?"

"Handsome?" Neal said, but Burke had already swooped in to lift Mitchell's hand to his lips.

"Peter Burke," he said, voice deep and suave. "I didn't realize Neal had such lovely friends."

"Okay, _no,"_ Neal said quickly, and then was saved by the arrival of the painting. In the process of getting it to the car, he managed to separate the two of them, but not before he saw Mitchell slip a card into Burke's hand, which vanished quickly into his pocket.

"No flirting with innocent gallery managers who don't know you're a criminal," Neal said between his teeth as soon as they were alone.

"I wasn't flirting."

"Yes you were, I saw you. Flirting all over the place. I saw her give you her card." Good Lord, the man had only been out of prison for two hours.

Peter shrugged. "She's a woman of taste. What can I say?"

Yeah, it was going to be a _really long_ six years.


End file.
